


The Quiet Birdmen Meet At Midnight

by paupotter_4869



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: F/M, Honesty, Late Night Conversations, Midnight, Plane, friendhsip, or maybe not, really - Freeform, surprise, who the hell knows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-16
Updated: 2016-11-16
Packaged: 2018-08-31 09:55:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8573821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paupotter_4869/pseuds/paupotter_4869
Summary: The team’s solved a case away from home and as Hotchner waits for everyone in the plane, getting a head-start on the case’s reports, he doesn’t realize what’s the meaning of this setting day until the first member of the team, Prentiss, arrives. Because these are my two all-time favorite characters and with Hotch now gone for season 12, I need more cute moments starring the pair of them.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written and dedicated to a special friend of mine, as a gift for her, since her birthday’s this week. Hope you like it! 
> 
> Story and characters belong to CBS network.

"Dawn and dusk are mutual friends of the sun; one opens the door for him to a brand new day and the other one has to shut it to embrace the darkness of night.” ― Munia Khan

He’s never required much to work--he doesn’t have a problem with concentrating, a quality that’s always been a check mark on his resumé’s plus column. All he yearns is some peace and quiet, plus a horizontal position, which isn’t as much as a requirement really. Apart from the office and his place what constitutes a perfect substitute away from home is the bureau-issued plane, empty at this moment. Given the fact that they're still on private field and the late hour means minimal plane traffic, he couldn't ask for better conditions.

Inasmuch he could never have found he same conditions at his hotel, not even in his own room, with so many guests going to and fro every so often, he’s barely stepped foot into the building--he’s too used to the plane and also, he’s expecting not to be bothered for another hour or so, at least. 

Or so he thought. 

“Knock, knock,” says a woman.

Dropping the pen and looking up with eyebrows frowned, he sees Emily's head popping out from the plane's door, a grin on her lips erasing all tiredness from her peaceful, beautiful face.

“Hey,” greets Hotch, who in the other hand is exhausted and was looking forward the flight to get some hours of sleep till he can’t drop dead on his own bed. 

“Hi. May I come in?” she asks when Hotch doesn't say anything else.

“You don't have to ask,” replies Hotchner, welcoming her in with a wave of his hand. 

Emily smiles for the permission and comes in, close to Hotch's place. She drops the travel bag on the spot behind her and sinks in her seat before Hotchner, without really bearing in mind the off-chance that the man might want to resume his work, rubbing her hands and arms to stay warm. Who knows how long has she been out there in the cold waiting for him to notice her, reckons Hotch, keeping a warmhearted smile on his face. 

“Didn't I say 11:30, so you all could get some sleep?” he asks, surprised since he’s pretty certain of his commands--it's barely five past ten thirty. 

“And yet you don't follow your own advice--here you are, working,” replies Emily. 

“Just writing the--”

“The case report, yes, I gather,” interjects Emily, knowing him only too well. 

“I can see how our profiling thingy can get annoying sometimes when you're the subject of said profile,” scowls Hotchner, closing the folder in an irritated slam and crossing his fingers over it. 

“Same as your character,” replies Emily, rising her eyebrows. Hotchner knows in spite of her words, she isn’t as pissed off as she sounds; they've seen the worst of each other and lived to tell the tale. “Couldn't have waited till tomorrow to write the report, as we all did?”

“Not really,” he refutes, cracking a smile. 

“Don't let me interrupt you,” she says, signaling for the folder. 

Unsure, debating if it's mannerly, Hotch slowly opens the folder once more. Since Emily takes her phone off the bag, he guesses it’s alright and places the folder on his lap, grabbing his pen, painfully aware of Emily's presence before him and her stare.

“The second victim's name was Marie Keller, wasn't it?” he asks some minutes later of deadly silence. 

“Do you really don't remember or are you asking just so I don't feel left out?” she demands in return. 

Knowing he's been busted, his chances of getting any work done blown off completely, he closes the folder for good, throwing it over the table, an embarrassed brief smile on his lips. 

“Here's an idea,” says Emily to break the ice. 

She sounds way too excited given the place and time, surprising Hotch once more tonight, as she reaches for her handbag and takes a pack of beers. At that sight, Hotch straights, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, looking around anxiously, as if they weren't two adults legally allowed to drink, without obligations nor nothing to do for the next three hours, now that they’ve successfully completed their tasks, that is, capturing the UNSUB. 

“I don't drink,” he scowls. 

Emily cocks her head, the pack of beer cans raised, and he's forced to rephrase that.  

“Not on a bureau-issued plane,” he scowls. “And don’t tell me you’ve brought that for a case closed celebration kind of thing.” 

He’s apparently falling down to the exact reaction Emily’d predicted coming from him, since she’s nodding calmly, accepting his refusal without a fuss--in fact, she rises a hand to make him stop. 

“Hold on. Garcia?” she asks, louder voice.

The computer on the table, against the wall, lights at once, showing their Technical Analyst, who was clearly on hold waiting to be called--despite the case finished hours ago and Hotch sent her home. 

“How long have you been logged on for?” he demands, leaning in to be on the computer visual field. 

“Why, did you do something I shouldn't have seen?” replies the woman in a wicked grin, cocking her head as if that will make him confess any faster. But he didn’t mean it for that reason--Garcia’s the only one who could have gone to bed at a reasonable hour, it makes no sense for her to stay up late too. Wouldn’t want a less efficient work from her because she didn’t sleep the hours she could have slept. 

“Garcia,” interjects Emily before they get off track, “hit it.”

“Yes, ma'am,” answers her formally. “Oh, and--congratulations, sir,” she adds looking at Hotch. 

The feed vanishes before the man can ask for an explanation. Confused, when all he wanted less than ten minutes ago was to finish his report and get some sleep, he looks at Prentiss with both eyebrows frowned, muttering, 

“The case--?” because he's lost and that's completely beyond his ken. 

The feed Prentiss asked from Garcia was, apparently, a song, that gets him to stop wondering about anything else at the moment. He’s recognized it right away--he used to listen to it quite often, almost on a weekly basis, back when Haley was still alive, and some things, one does not forget easily. It was one of her favorites and he arranged it as a surprise so they could dance on their wedding to this song. 

“What--?”

“Jack called us,” says Emily, as if that explained anything. “Sorry I couldn't get the others--they turned off their phones too.”

“Jack--”

Before he can finish that and many other questions accumulating in his mind, he hears his son's voice greeting him on the feed and turns towards the screen. He sees Jack crouched in front of the camera, checking it's not out of focus, before standing on his two feet, rubbing his hands, undecided or nervous. 

“Hey, Dad. Jack here. Hope the day was better than most,” he says, making Hotchner smile--that's his line when a case ends surprisingly well, as in, they manage to capture the UNSUB before things get too out of hand. 

“I'm alright and don't worry, I'll be asleep by the time you see this. Emily told me you'd closed the case, so congratulations. But she reckons you won't be back in time for another kind of celebration so here it goes--happy 49th, Dad.”

As he says those last words, he raises a sign he painted himself with that very same sentence: Happy 49th birthday, Dad! Hotch looks up at Emily, who returns him a nod of her head and a condescending smile to confirm everything he’s hearing and disbelieving, and then at his watch to check that's true--his birthday is almost over. It's not the first time he's forgotten about it and been surprised by his son, though Emily and Garcia's input it's completely new, this time. 

“Listen, my real present is waiting for you when you get home--open it as soon as you're home, I'll know if you don't. Now, I asked Emily to prepare you somewhat of a real celebration, 'cause I'm certain you forgot about your birthday altogether, so don't be mad at her--thank her, actually, she's mentioned having problems contacting this late with Morgan and Reid and JJ. I'm sorry we couldn't be together today. Enjoy it while it lasts, we'll celebrate it properly this weekend! Love you, Dad. Oh, congratulations from Beth too. Bye!”

As his son’s image disappears and the screen fades to black, Hotch stares at the remnant of his son, bewildered, before slowly turning towards Prentiss, speechless--which doesn’t happen to him too often, they both know that. 

“I can't believe--”

“I do, actually,” she interjects, smiling as if she pitied him. “Your son's a resourceful young man. Don't know where he got that from.”

“Thanks,” whispers Hotch, knowing it was a compliment in disguise--the only kind he accepts, and by dropping his stare to his feet. “Now, I think I will accept one of those cans.”

“Atta boy,” praises Emily, handing him one with a broad smile. “I'm sorry I couldn't get a hold on the others--”

“Don't be, they must be sleeping. This is quiet, familiar and completely unexpected, hence perfect. Thank you.”

“It really suits you,” confirms Emily. 

They can’t help but laugh, ‘cause that’s the perfect definition for Hotchner’s character and usual way of being and acting. He reaches out and they cheer before drinking the first sip of the beer, the smallest of ones. 

“I actually rather you didn’t tell them,” says Hotch, resuming their previous subject. 

 “From what I gather, Jack’s been leaving messages to everyone on the team--afraid they’ll realize what’s so special about today.” 

“Damn,” chuckles Hotch, not at all bothered--he has to thank Jack as soon as he gets home, whatever present he might have got for him. “I’ll have a serious conversation with my son.” 

“Please, don’t,” replies Emily. “It was really nice of him.” 

“I know; I wouldn’t tell him off or punish him for doing this for his oblivious father,” nods Hotch, taking another sip. 

As she’s managing to actually get him to relax, Emily takes his folder, throwing it at the seat couple feet from him, and keeps him entertained with familiar and easy chitchat while they both keep drinking slowly. 

“So, how does it feel?” she asks at a given moment. 

“I hadn't even realized, so not that different,” replies Hotch, cocking his head, looking at the darkness through the window. Coinciding with each of the plane’s windows, there’re small circles of light on the ground, with his and Emily’s heads shadows in the middle of two of them. 

“And now that you've realized?” chuckles her.

“I might say I needn't the reminder. Makes me feel old,” he confesses, still looking through the windows, the direct factor for the smallest smile by the corner of his lips, a genuine, shy smile. “Actually, the last time I forgot my birthday--it's coming to me now--Jack jumped into a taxi, arrived in the Bureau and got himself into my office to have a birthday party, after I payed off the driver,” he explains. 

“For real?” exclaims Emily, laughing under her breath. “When was that?” 

“Few years ago--I think the team was away for some errand.”

“Man, I would have loved to see your reaction.” 

Hotch ponders the indirect question for barely ten seconds and offers the answer finally looking back at Emily. 

“Frantic and dismayed,” he sums it up in two simple, yet graphic words. “Seeing my son at the Bureau on a working day, minutes after I received a phone call from his school reporting he hadn’t showed up, when I was about to engage a state-wide search party, a taxi driver following him demanding his fare.” 

 “That was something,” praises Emily. 

“It really was,” confirms Hotch. “And now he’s got Garcia and you for his private scheme.” 

“At least he didn't get on a plane and got himself here," she laughs. 

"Thank GOD he didn't," scowls Hotch, bursting into laughter. "I'd have been forced to kick him back home." 

"He’s grown,” laughs Emily, rising the beer can in a gesture to drink as a toast to Jack and, of course the man who raised that child and made him the marvelous, young man he’s become now. 

“The fact that I can now talk to him almost as if he were an adult already scares me a notch,” Hotch confesses. “That’s what makes me feel old.” 

“You measure your life through your child’s personal achievements, it’s only too typical,” whispers Emily. She cannot fully understand what Hotch’s talking about, having no children or family of her own, but can make an attempt at comfort him, if that’s something Hotch ever needs, through what she’s heard from her mother and other parents. 

“Not just my son’s,” replies the man, staring right into Emily’s eyes. 

She knows, or merely guesses, he’s referring to the team’s developing throughout the years, with leaders and partners and bosses coming and going while the cases and UNSUBs keep appearing, evolving in their own way, keeping them busy; but not being interested in finding out, Prentiss prefers to change the topic. 

“May I ask. . .” 

“Put in another beer and you might as well,” allows Hotch. 

Utterly surprised by the suggestion, Prentiss obliges without saying a word, provided speaking sets him off this bizarre, oblivious, over-the-moon state, and hands him another can. 

“I wanted to ask--Now that you’ve reached a certain age--” 

“Watch it. Remember I’ve still got the power to fire you,” he warns, never really meaning the menace, nor willing to fulfill it. 

She knows all of that and proves it snickering under her breath, getting as comfortable as it gets into her seat, before rephrasing her original question. 

“Considering the perspective age gives you, is there any advice you’d give to your younger self?” 

Staring outside the window once more, as to avoid Emily’s gaze, Hotch deliberates the question, taking now and then some short sips of beer, for some long minutes--she doesn’t hassle him, knowing he hasn’t forgotten the question or is just stalling till she gives up waiting for an answer. 

“Couple things,” he says in the end, addressing the window pane. “Maybe take it easy sometimes--everything will work out, no matter how dark or devastating or annihilating something feels like in the heat of the moment.” 

She doesn’t need to ask, or really put her mind to it, to know what’s he talking about exactly. And maybe because of the painful memories, he turns to look at Emily before resuming talking. 

“Not to feel bad for leaving Jack so often for a case,” he proceeds. “Trust the team and lean on them as much as they will lean on me. And, last but not least,” he grins, showing the most serious part is over now, as he cocks his head, “take a moment now and then to enjoy the beautiful things in my life.” 

Emily nods, letting all the words sink in, whereas for once, Hotch doesn’t break eye contact with her. For once in her life not trying to decipher the meaning behind that gaze--being honest with herself, she prefers not to analyze it--she wraps her mind around those words. Sounds like good advice, for him and herself, for her future career--she’s sort of wishing someone’d told her this years earlier. 

“Can I take them?” she asks. 

“If it can really help you, be my guest. I'd be honored, truly.” he allows, rising his can. 

It'd look like another beer’s down and before she’s asked, Emily hands him a third one. He takes it, wearily, taking a couple moments before opening it--same as Emily, in front of him. A third beer in a row might be too much. 

“At least we had time to have dinner,” whispers Hotch, translation for I-don’t-give-a-damn-anymore, as he opens his beer and right away, Emily copies him. “Though if you don’t put a stop to me, we’ll finish the pack by ourselves,” he says after the first sip. 

 “And would that be a problem?” asks Emily, leaning for a second toast on a row, to to pay tribute him. 

“None of you has seen me drunk--wouldn’t want today, of all days, to be the first time.” 

“I don’t think no-one has ever seen you drunk,” replies her. 

“Fair point,” chuckles Hotch. “But it’d be unfair for them--and I want to get home in a reasonable sober state.” 

“Both very well argued points,” concedes Emily, sinking into her seat, “though they don’t need to know there ever was contraband on our plane and it’s at least four hours yet till you reach home--so tell me, what’s the real problem?” 

Shaking his head, now it’s Hotch who avoids the subject, in spite of taking a longer sip of beer this time. Only afterwards he does face Prentiss again, signaling her bag with his index finger. 

“How did you smuggle this in?” 

“It might not have passed through security checks,” confesses Prentiss in a shameless wink. 

This time his boss settles for a roll of eyes to show his disapproval. “As your boss I can't condone it.”

“Then let's just tell the rest of the team I bought the pack at the airport,” suggests Emily, “if we don’t manage to finish them all,” she adds, winking at him without a care in the world. “It is a special day, after all.” 

“You’re never letting me forget about it, are you?” demands Hotch, fearing what the next few years are going to be like. 

 “Nope,” confirms Emily, shaking her head. “I’ll work with your son from now on.” 

“I fear a nightmare coming in,” scowls Hotch, dropping his head backwards. 

“Next year you are taking the day off and spending the whole day with your son,” instructs Prentiss sternly, as if the roles had exchanged and between the two of them, she were the boss now, “I think he’s earned it.” 

“I take a day off on every other special day,” scoffs Hotch, “I don’t want to make such a fuss for MY birthday. Aren’t I supposed to do what I want?” 

“Unless it’s dependent on to your own child’s request. Or your team’s,” replies Emily, incredulous to the fact that they’re actually debating the man’s off work days, an argument she doesn’t think she’s had with anyone else she’s ever met in her life. “And remember, I can make a few phone calls and make it happen.” 

“Just stop it, for now,” begs Hotch, raising both hands in the air, dropping out of the fight, for now, Prentiss knows. “Thank God it is three-hundred and sixty-five days till my next birthday.” 

 “Good,” praises her, “this way you have time to accept the day off.” 

Shifting into his seat to scan the plane, looking for either one of the pilots, Hotch can only beg for take-off so this nightmarish conversation ends once and for all and he gets a few hours to sleep before waking Jack through a tickling war. Never mind the hour he gets home, or that it is a working day, he will spend some quality time with his son tonight, even if his birthday will be already over. 

“When are we supposed to take off?”


End file.
